


Belong to You

by Bohemienne



Series: Ficmas 2019 [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Ficmas, Ficmas 2019, Hair-pulling, Jealousy, Light Choking, M/M, Marking, Name-Calling, Possessive Sex, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, bottom!ferdinand, bratty bottom ferdinand, top!hubert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Ferdinand gets winedrunk and flirty at an imperial function, so Hubert has to remind him who he belongs to.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Ficmas 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550113
Comments: 25
Kudos: 654





	Belong to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diebreado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diebreado/gifts), [Scramblesfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scramblesfic/gifts).



> I needed to write a rough sex bratty bottom Ferdie PWP to balance out [the saccharine softness of the one I posted earlier this week](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473449), and diebreado and @scramblesart helpfully offered up the jealousy prompt! Happy early Ficmas!
> 
>  **ETA:** See end notes for NSFW fanart link!

Hubert shoves him into the depths of the darkened conservatory, gloved hands like shackles around Ferdinand’s wrists. His face is contorted and ghoulish in the moonlight, cheeks and eyebrows sharpened blades as he backs Ferdinand against a rose trellis. Breath catching, Ferdinand feels that glare like a flame too close to his skin; one misstep and it’ll sear him.

“I have had quite enough,” Hubert growls, “of your little _displays_ for one night.”

“Have you? You hardly seemed to notice them at all.”

It’s a lie, of course; he felt Hubert’s glare chasing him across the Imperial dining hall and ballroom the whole night as he drank and regaled and danced and flirted, but nothing seemed enough to pry Hubert from his shadowy corners where he whispered with his spies. At least, not until the Albinean shipping heiress began to flirt back a little too aggressively, stumbling a little too close to Ferdinand as she chatted, drinking a little too much wine.

“As if I could ever take my eyes from you,” Hubert murmurs against Ferdinand’s neck. Then, transferring Ferdinand’s wrists to one hand, he curls the other loosely at Ferdinand’s throat. “Especially when you were making such an embarrassment of yourself.”

Ferdinand lets out a gasp, making a show of wriggling against Hubert’s grip. Her Majesty’s shadowy assassin is far stronger than his gangly form appears, but Ferdinand could likely overpower him if he wanted to. _If_ he wanted to. Yet it’s much more fun to leave that untested for now. “If I must embarrass myself to get some attention from you, so be it.”

“Is that truly what you want?” Hubert’s thumb traces down the center line of Ferdinand’s throat, over the ridge of his apple, as his fingers dig a dissonant chord into the back of his neck. “Everyone gossiping about what a filthy slut the prime minister is?”

Ferdinand whimpers as the insult flares hot low in his gut. “They might as well, if I can’t lay claim to you.”

He can practically _taste_ the cold radiating off Hubert at that. He’s pushed too far. No one save the emperor and her wife know of their relationship, and for good reason, or so they tell themselves: it would make them too vulnerable, too susceptible to harm. The prime minister would look weak, Hubert said, for consorting with such a gruesome figure as himself, while Hubert’s many enemies as a spymaster would target Ferdinand.

But Ferdinand is tired of lying, of tempering what he feels. He only knows how to love one way: as loudly as he can.

Hubert shifts his weight, caught off-guard, it would seem, by his outburst. “Is that so.”

There’s a poisoned edge to the words. But given the chance—Ferdinand will always lean into Hubert’s knife.

When he nods, Hubert presses nearer, red wine on his breath as his lips reach tantalizingly close. Ferdinand tries to meet them, but the hand at his throat only tightens, thumb digging firm into his trachea. “You want everyone to know whose you are?” That blade of words scrapes rougher against Ferdinand’s skin. “You want to be marked and bruised and wrecked like a used-up whore? Do you want everyone to see the bitemarks on your lips and know what a filthy, vile creature you let fill you with his seed?”

Ferdinand whines, the words opening a pit of yearning inside of him that only Hubert can fill. He flexes his hands in Hubert’s grasp, and his fingers dig around the metal bars of the rose trellis. This is what he’s wanted, from the moment Hubert’s fierce grip landed on his bicep to usher him from the ballroom with a hiss of _Prime Minister, I believe you’ve had quite enough._ He wants Hubert to ruin him. More than anything, he wants to be _claimed_.

“Yes,” Ferdinand rasps, air rattling against the thumb at his throat. “Goddess, please.”

Hubert’s laugh spreads like a shadow around them. And then, without warning, he strikes viper-quick—teeth sinking hard into Ferdinand’s lower lip.

Ferdinand squirms, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He tastes copper and salt as Hubert draws blood. Hubert’s teeth gnash before he releases him, and the trickle of red on his lips gleams black in the moonlight.

“Shall I take you here, where anyone could stumble upon us?” Hubert says, leaning again right at his ear. “Will that satisfy you—if some dignitary sees you getting fucked like a brood mare?”

Ferdinand manages a strangled cry as the pit widens. “Hubert, please—”

Hubert plunges his tongue into Ferdinand’s mouth then, silencing him with a violent thrust, teeth and lips scraping Ferdinand raw. His erection is _throbbing_ now, stickiness smearing the inside of his trousers. As Hubert ravages his mouth, he rocks his hips forward, aching, needing desperately to feel Hubert’s friction against his—

“Oh, no.” Hubert rears back from him, carefully angling his own hips out of reach. “I say when you get to feel some relief, not you . Because you belong to me and no one else, understood?”

“Maybe you had better remind me,” Ferdinand smarts back.

In an instant, Hubert rips him off of the trellis and throws him to the ground. Ferdinand winces as he sinks into the loamy conservatory dirt, but it’s hardly enough to make him even contemplate the word they’ve agreed on, if either of them feels their antics have gone too far. Hubert looms over him, a black figure backlit by stars, and assesses him with one hand on tapping against his chin.

“You seem to be under the impression you can give orders to me,” Hubert says.

Ferdinand feels like he’s doing a marvelous job of getting what he wants so far, but wisely keeps that to himself. “I am merely encouraging you.”

Hubert crouches down before him as Ferdinand backs against the trunk of the nearest orange tree. For a long minute, he says nothing, and the only sound is the frantic hammer of Ferdinand’s pulse in his ears. But then Hubert reaches out, and tangles his gloved hand in Ferdinand’s red silk tie. As he yanks him forward, his tie pin dislodges, popping off into the dirt.

“Then I _suggest_ you get undressed now,” he says, in his sandpaper-silken voice, “unless you want me to start ripping things.”

Ferdinand anxiously starts working at the buttons of his outer jacket, but Hubert is already reaching forward to wrench open his dress shirt and vest. Ferdinand yelps as Hubert tears them open, heedless of the buttons scattering into the dirt, and shoves another brutal kiss against Ferdinand’s bruised mouth.

“And what about that slutty little hole of yours?” Hubert asks, as his gloved hands lower to Ferdinand’s waistband. “Is it ready for me as ever?”

It’s been a few days since Hubert last took him; he shakes his head as Hubert’s teeth rake against his neck. “I might need some assistance—”

“A salacious flirt like you? My, Ferdinand. You’d think you’d always be ready.” With a grunt, he rips through the row of buttons on the front of Ferdinand’s trousers. “I suppose I must do everything.”

“I do not see you doing anything just yet,” Ferdinand says.

Hubert plunges a gloved hand into Ferdinand’s trousers and cups his balls in a rough grasp. “I would be on much better behavior if I were a man in your position.”

Ferdinand’s toes curl inside his boots at the crude handling. “Then let us put you in my position and see how you behave.”

“Oh, darling.”

Hubert licks at the side of Ferdinand’s face, then drags his tongue around the shell of his ear before sucking his earlobe into his mouth. He releases it with a wet pop as his hand shifts to curl around Ferdinand’s cock. The rough leather-covered pad of his thumb finds the flare of Ferdinand’s head and presses hard.

“Do you yearn to fuck me so badly? You might’ve said so.” His other hand runs down Ferdinand’s chest, and circles a nipple with his thumb. “But not tonight. Tonight, I intend to put you in your place. If you want so much for everyone to know who fucks you until you can barely make it through your morning rides, then I can hardly deny you.”

Ferdinand forces himself to breathe slowly, as the words seem to burn straight to his aching cock. “Do you mean it?” Ferdinand asks. “That—that we can tell others, I mean.”

“Sweet, pretty thing.” Hubert pets the side of his face. “When I’m done with you tonight, we won’t have to.”

He hoists Ferdinand back to his feet, and Ferdinand throws his arms around Hubert’s shoulders to steady himself. Their mouths lock again, the kisses painfully sharp against his raw lips, as Hubert works Ferdinand’s trousers down his hips. The pain is almost anesthetizing—electric, Ferdinand would call it, that jolt from the first time they kissed never really fading. But he wants to feel everything. As Hubert peels one of his own black leather gloves off with his teeth, unearths a vial of oil from his coat pocket, and presses two slippery fingers inside Ferdinand—he wants to feel everything.

And as those fingers twist inside him, he has to bury his face in Hubert’s shoulder to smother his cries, he feels so much.

“Steady, darling.” Hubert pries Ferdinand’s head from his shoulder by tangling his still-gloved hand in Ferdinand’s hair. “You don’t come until I say so. That, too, belongs to me.”

Ferdinand goes a little bleary-eyed from the exquisite anguish as he manages to nod.

Hubert releases his hair, and unfastens his own trousers, letting them sag down around his knees. His fingers withdraw from Ferdinand just long enough for him to apply more oil to them and drag them along his own length before returning to Ferdinand.

“All of you belongs to me.” Hubert shoves a third finger into him to join the first two, and Ferdinand shudders. “And if you want that known, we’ll make it known.” Then Ferdinand is suddenly empty; Hubert is backing him against the iron trellis again, red roses surrounding him as Hubert grips Ferdinand underneath his thighs and hoists him up. Ferdinand hooks his fingers into the latticework with one hand, and wraps the other around Hubert’s head as he locks his booted calves around the back of Hubert’s slender waist.

Ferdinand is quivering, his whole body loose and yet full of nervous potential ready to be unleashed. As Hubert guides his cock toward the tight muscle of Ferdinand’s hole, he has to bite down on his battered lip to stop himself from sinking down on his own.

Hubert’s gaze locks onto his. “So if you want everyone to know, you had better shout my name.”

Despite the oil, it _burns_ as Hubert thrusts forward and upward into him, and Ferdinand can’t manage any words at all, wailing at the perfectly uncomfortable fullness of Hubert’s cock inside him. Once Hubert’s seated fully inside him, he gives another quick thrust, just to press as deep as he can. The drag of it inside Ferdinand is too much—and only his promise forces him to fight back his climax right then, Hubert’s words and touch and violent kisses and agonizing _Hubert_ ness so much it threatens to tear him apart.

But Hubert is far from finished with him, bare hand digging into the underside of Ferdinand’s right thigh as his gloved hand wraps around Ferdinand’s hair like reins. His hips roll backward before he slams up into Ferdinand again, and the fierce pull at Ferdinand’s scalp sets him wailing again.

“What’s that?” Hubert pulls Ferdinand’s head back with his hair, exposing his neck, bared now from his torn-open shirt and vest and jacket, and mouths at a fresh mark he’s left. “I couldn’t quite understand you.”

“Hubert!” Ferdinand cries, as a fresh thrust sends sparks shooting behind his eyes. “Hubert, please!”

“It’s very loud in the ballroom still,” Hubert utters. “I doubt they’ve heard you just yet.”

“Hube-Aah!” The need for release is like a hard knot in Ferdinand’s stomach that he can’t unravel. With a fresh push, Hubert’s teeth burrow into Ferdinand’s bared shoulder, and Ferdinand can only dig his own hand into Hubert’s hair—desperate for some outlet for every sensation he’s feeling.

“My sweet Ferdinand.” Hubert’s next thrust sends him further into the roses, petals crumpling and releasing their perfume. “Such a joy it is to stain you.” He sucks hard at Ferdinand’s collarbone on the next. “To see such a holy being, the untouchable prime minister, soiled—” Ferdinand whimpers at the next—“bruised—” and another, tearing another hungry _Hubert_ out of bloody lips—“dripping with the seed of such a wicked creature as me.”

“There’s nothing— _aah, Hubert!—_ that I want more,” Ferdinand manages, fingers tightening—around the trellis, around Hubert’s scalp.

Hubert snarls, and his bare fingers bruise into the meat of Ferdinand’s thigh. “Convince me,” he hisses into Ferdinand’s ear.

“ _Hubert!_ ” Ferdinand wails, as Hubert slams into him and _grinds_ there, refusing to let him go. And it’s all he ever wants from him—to belong to him, to never be away from him, to live proudly in his arms.

“Now,” Hubert breathes. “Now.”

Hubert lets go of his thigh to pump at Ferdinand’s cock as he drives into him again, and it takes nothing at all—the dark look on his love’s face amidst the shadowed conservatory, the opulent pain, the filthy words like silk against his mind—and he’s coming as if it’s been years and not days, his lungs on fire as he shouts Hubert’s name, and Hubert growls his for all the world to know.

He’s too weak to stand, sweaty and dripping with both of their spend, as Hubert eases him down from the rose trellis. Both their outfits are surely ruined, to say nothing of his torn-open shirt, but all he cares about right now is the starlight glittering in Hubert’s eyes as he leans over to kiss Ferdinand’s forehead and smooth back the hair plastered to his face.

“You are so good,” Hubert murmurs, lips soft and sloppy all over Ferdinand’s head. “So perfect to me.”

Ferdinand smiles wearily up at him. “You are one to talk.”

They’ve sunk to the garden grounds. It’ll only be a short walk to one of their quarters within the palace, but there’s something sacred in a moment like this that they both seem reluctant to break. “Ferdinand,” Hubert ventures, stroking fingers along the marked-up lines of Ferdinand’s neck.

Ferdinand sighs at the gentle touch. “Hmm?”

“Is it truly so important to you that we hide no longer?” And Ferdinand could swear he’s turning scarlet in the darkness—“I suppose I just . . . thought you’d be ashamed, maybe. When you could have anyone. Those people at the ball were just a drop in the bucket, after all—”

“But I meant what I said.” Ferdinand swipes his fingers down Hubert’s lips, and Hubert hums, closing his eyes. “I only want you.”

And marked, sticky, and bruised—when Hubert kisses him so gently, he knows he’s wanted, too.

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)
> 
> **[(NSFW!) Gorgeous art by @scoiatits!](https://twitter.com/scoiatits/status/1202671692771930112) **


End file.
